


if you will move your icy hands

by seraf



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, Holding Hands, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Canon, gay philosophy, idk man. the inherent homoeroticism between two nihilists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: ‘ do you know how to read palms, then? ‘ mike asks him, smile so faint on his face it’s barely there; like when you can only feel the wind is blowing because of the chill against your lips. the scar that mars his face turns it crooked, pulls one corner of his lip up a little by default. it’s a good smile. always honest, whether bitterly so or beautifully. oliver considers the question for a long moment, both of them fine with the silence that stretches out in front of them.
Relationships: Oliver Banks/Michael "Mike" Crew
Comments: 20
Kudos: 51





	if you will move your icy hands

‘ do you know how to read palms, then? ‘ mike asks him, smile so faint on his face it’s barely there; like when you can only feel the wind is blowing because of the chill against your lips. the scar that mars his face turns it crooked, pulls one corner of his lip up a little by default. it’s a good smile. always honest, whether bitterly so or beautifully. oliver considers the question for a long moment, both of them fine with the silence that stretches out in front of them.

( it’s not like anyone really comes to the magick store at this time, anyway - it’s a little before noon on a tuesday. not a particularly auspicious time for it. they’re sitting on the back steps, breeze picking up mike’s wayward curls. )

‘ not really, ‘ he admits, finally. ‘ i . . . knew the basics, of course, but a lot of the time, i just - ‘ he laughs under his breath, a rueful little thing, ducking his head. ‘ i would just use it as a means to an end, to try to tell them about what i saw. ‘

‘ what you _really_ saw, ‘ mike clarifies, nodding, and oliver hums once in return. idly, mike’s knuckles curl over his own sternum, brushing a place close enough to his heart that oliver aches for it, sometimes. the corpseroute that shoots through him is an aggressive one, brutal and efficient. mike had asked once, and oliver just . . . hadn’t lied. neither of them are too worried about the inevitable, though. it’s not in their nature to be.

‘ what brings it to mind? ‘ oliver asks, and mike nods at the store behind them.

‘ just . . . thinking about it all. ‘ he spreads his hands a little across his thighs. ‘ about the logic of everything, i mean. it’s easy enough from where we stand to say that magic doesn’t work, but . . . how much of our world is dictated by willpower? by the direction of the human mind? like . . . clowns, ‘ he starts, and oliver can’t help but laugh under his breath.

‘ are you making a jab at my profession? ‘ he asks, the stress-lines around his eyes turning up as he teases him, and mike just gives him an amused look.

‘ i wasn’t, but don’t tempt me. ‘ his eyes reflect the sky uncannily well, the same shadowed clouds and slow progression of color appearing in them as he continues his thought. ‘ _we_ made them an aspect of the stranger, i mean. the cultural fear of them and the stories . . . ‘ he rubs a hand over his mouth. ‘ or - how i became in the first place. there’s no coherent _reason_ that a bunch of latin out of a book would - would fill me with the sky. but that’s how we _believe_ the world works. so i’ve always wondered, with occultism and the rest of it . . . is there a chance that some part of it does work? just because of how human willpower shapes the world? ‘

oliver considers him a moment. ‘ and that translated into you asking me if i knew how to read palms. ‘

‘ i have adhd, oliver. ‘

the gleam of his teeth is a nice contrast, mike thinks, against his dark skin, and the back of oliver’s hand traces over his for a moment. ‘ i know. ‘ mike’s lips purse, trying to decide whether or not to be mad at him, but before he can make up his mind, oliver takes his hand in his, turning it over in his lap so that mike’s hand rests over his, palm-up. ‘ do you want me to, then? ‘

mike breathes out a laugh. ‘ why not. ‘

oliver’s fingertip traces, slow and careful, over the lines of mike’s palm, brow furrowed as he studies it intently. then, without ceremony, he flips it over, so the back of mike’s hand, his knuckles, are pointed up at him. mike only gets to blink for a second in surprise, confusion, before oliver is tracing over his fingertips.

‘ you used to chew your nails, ‘ he says, quietly. ‘ or the skin around them, at least. ‘ his thumb traces the still-ragged skin surrounding the bed of one of mike’s nails. like the edges of torn paper, remnants of hangnails almost feathery. mike’s eyes flick to oliver’s face for a moment, watching him curiously, but he stays quiet. lets oliver work. ‘ you’re not as stressed as you used to be, at least. ‘

a tip of mike’s wrist, thumb sweeping over where fractals still burn into his skin, silver-white and vertiginous. oliver doesn’t say anything. just lets the whorl of his thumbprint rest over the jagged lines, spiral to spiral, feeling the cool thrum of _something_ that still lingers in more than skin. both of them understand.

his hand moves again. he frowns, looking a little more closely at mike’s hand, bringing it almost up to his face. ‘ . . . one of your fingers isn’t . . . right? ‘ he doesn’t know how to phrase it, other than that. disjointed, skewed oddly. like he’d broken it, maybe, but that wouldn’t explain why it - his ring finger - was longer than his middle finger. he didn’t _think_ that was a feature of mike’s other hand. just to check, he tugs mike’s other hand up, unfurling it like a flower opening. no, that one’s normal.

mike’s smile is almost sheepish. ‘ it’s not my bone. i could’ve done a better job with it. ‘

ah. well, that would explain it. mike’s hands were smaller than many’s. oliver nods at that, giving mike his other hand back, but not before brushing a kiss to the back of his knuckles in parting, lips crypt-cold. mike didn’t mind, though. he never did.

oliver looks at mike’s hand studiously for another long, drawn-out moment. if either of them were alive enough for it, there would be no sound but their pulses beating in their ears. as it is, there’s just the rushing in mike’s bad ear, like a shell pressed to it. like the sound of the wind, loud enough to hear in a closed house, through the drawn curtains. oliver’s brow is furrowed in concentration, and mike wonders. they’re in stasis, now, but . . . even if they don’t age. will the worry lines around oliver’s face continue to grow, just from the wear of them? carved into his face like someone dug a fingernail into clay?

‘ anything else? ‘ he asks, after it seems like oliver has been quiet for awhile.

‘ well . . . ‘

he nudges oliver’s knee with his own, curious.

oliver hands mike’s hand back to him, his fingernail clicking against mike’s as he taps it, the half-chipped remnants of nail polish still there. ‘ you’re gay. ‘

mike can’t help snorting at that, hands resting in his lap. their silence is companionable, for awhile.

‘ do you not believe in most of it anymore, then? ‘ he asks, letting his head tilt on its axis.

oliver shrugs, mulling over his answer, the faintest sliver of teeth a stark contrast against the dark of his skin as he bites his lip thoughtfully. ‘ i . . . i’m no longer sure it matters whether i believe in it or not, ‘ he says truthfully, leaning against the wrought-iron railing of the steps. ‘ perhaps some of it has some merit. maybe _anything_ can have some merit, if you put enough belief into it. we operate in nightmares, after all. logic doesn’t . . . necessarily have to fit in the bounds of what we’d call scientific reality. ‘

‘ and yet? ‘ mike prompts, gently.

oliver gestures, a vague wave of one hand. ‘ and yet . . . as i said. i don’t think it matters to me one way or the other, anymore. it’s . . . a shift in perspective. ‘ he takes mike’s hand again, in demonstration, tracing over the shallow dip of mike’s lifeline. ‘ maybe the curve here, or how deep it is - maybe that really means something. but all i can think is . . . regardless of the shape or form, it’s just - a finite line. does it matter how long a life is? ‘ he hands mike’s hand back to him, but something in his eyes, in the way they catch onto that spot through mike’s sternum again, makes mike slip their fingers together rather than just returning his hand to himself. ‘ i suppose it’s . . . symbolic in its own right. ‘ his thumb of the hand not twined with mike’s digs into itself, thumb idly digging into his own palm. ‘ no matter what the path is shaped like, it always ends. ‘

the wind caresses the bare branches of the trees around them, a chorus fading off into silence.

the corpseroute that digs through mike’s heart curls just a little bit deeper. another step down the black and winding path.

so it goes.

**Author's Note:**

> idk man. gay hours i guess


End file.
